The Bartender
by Nitesh
Summary: [Of Mice and Men] A month after Lennie's death, a bartender finally asks George what he's done that he can't forgive himself for.


_**After reading 'Of Mice and Men' in our English class, we were assigned to write an epilogue 'ghost chapter' that would alleviate the lonliness of someone on the ranch. I choose George, and what I wrote I was super proud of, so here you are.**_

_**Happy Valentine's Day.**_

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The Bartender

A mile or so south of the ranch is a quiet street on the far edge of town. The road isn't paved but is damp dirt, and it is mostly clean of any sort of tracks, human or animal. Huge swirls of dust whisk around in half-hearted tornados whenever a wind decides to grace the street with its presence, blown from the cracks between the wooden boards of the porches. Few outsiders ever come there anymore, only unfortunate shop owners who barely make ends meet.

On the corner of the street stands a bar that, at one point in its obviously long life, looks like it had once been painted white. Now the white paint is easy to flake off the walls, where it crumbles to the floor. The roof slants oddly, but folks are only able to see this outside, staring up.

Inside, the bar is orderly and tidy, despite the splintery wooden walls. There are always men there, but never to the point of being overcrowded or rowdy, and a game of cards is always being played on one of the small tables clustered around the room, set up with velvet red chairs with spidery wood legs. They're usually at the back, near the broken piano that the bar owner has never bothered to throw out.

Walking in, folks are suddenly hit with an almost overwhelming smell of scotch, and a vague perfume hints at the air, the kind that makes a man glance around the room unintentionally for someone long forgotten.

It's dim there, only lit up by the table lamps and a few electric bulbs hanging haphazardly from the ceiling. But it is always much warmer there than what lies outside, the night sky bedecked with stars. They twinkle with a cold and uninviting grace that many mistake for beauty. George knew better.

It was a strange kind of pain, the guilt that he felt.

It was as if time had stood still, had completely stopped for that moment when he had pulled the trigger. In doing it so had severed any emotion or connection to other people that he had. It was, simply, as if the story had ended there. In that moment, not one person had died, but two.

He stared into his half-empty scotch glass and it flashed back some sort of serene light, caught from the dim electric bulb overheard. The way the liquor shone sent sparkles into his vision, and he twirled the glass lazily between his fingertips.

It had been a month.

No one had cried at Curley's wife's funeral. As they had lowered the casket into the ground in the little graveyard, only Slim had had the decency to look apologetic. George and Carlson hadn't had any expression on their faces at all, and Candy had looked openly hostile. Curley arrived late, and only stared into the gaping hole that had swallowed his wife's body.

George drummed his fingers on the side on the bar counter. Curley hadn't shown up to Lennie's funeral at all. Slim had later mentioned something akin to him still being in mourning for his wife, but George, of course, knew better. He hadn't loved his wife. She was only another pretty face, and there were hundreds more of her. He only had his own pride to blame.

That time, Slim had been honestly sorrowful. Throughout the priest's reading he occasionally stole glances at George, who looked stony-faced as ever as they lowered Lennie into the earth.

He swallowed the rest of the scotch in a single gulp, and winced only slightly as it burned his throat on the way down to his stomach.

"Another," he said in a low rumble to the bartender, who was standing a ways back from behind the bar, watching George with inquisitive, yet unpretentious eyes.

He had been wiping the same glass with a rag for a good five minutes, and with a soft sigh and a nervous twitch in his fingers he reached out and snatched away George's glass, refilling it liberally. The bartender set it down before him with a solid clunk, and then stood back, watching, vaguely interested, as George immediately picked it up and swung back his head, gulping much of it down quickly and efficiently.

"Don't you think you've had enough for one night?"

George glanced up sharply and studied the man critically from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, but he had already turned away, wiping his hands on his grungy apron. He seemed to be in his late forties, and he was balding on top with the remainder forming a gray-brown halo above his ears. His eyes were black and somber, and although he didn't look George in the eye, he knew the bartender was waiting for a response.

"Not nearly," he said simply, with the merest trace of a growl.

The bartender shrugged absently and picked up his rag again, returning to scrubbing the glass tankard half-heartedly. George returned to sipping his scotch, or, more accurately, staring at it, feeling a familiar headache coming on. Perhaps it hadn't been the best idea to knock back nearly a full glass of scotch in under a minute.

"What did you do?"

The bartender seemed intent on getting a minute spot off of the glass, and didn't meet George's eyes when he looked up. "What makes you ask that?"

A short sigh escaped the man's lips, and he shifted and leaned his long torso farther down the bar, flipped over the glass and banged it down out of sight somewhere behind the counter, apparently having given up on whatever spot had been there. "Guys like you don't drink so much," he stated matter-of-factly, wringing his hands together, staring unhesitatingly now into George's eyes. "You've been down here every night for weeks. You drink yourself into a daze an' go home, wherever that may be. You never play cards, never talk to nobody. Guys don't do that unless they done somethin' they can't forgive themselves for."

Despite himself, George smiled lopsidedly. "You assume a lot."

The bartender shrugged, not swayed. "It's just what I know."

George leaned forward and picked up his glass again, staring into it and swirling the liquid back and forth, though not drinking. He scrutinized the barman from underneath the brim of his hat, unsure what to say.

He had killed Lennie. That was, quite simply, the only thing he was certain of anymore. And that had been _everything_, that one connection. That thread that connected George to someone, to _anyone_. No one else got close to him, and if he was ever to think hard enough about it, he would realize that he didn't give anyone else a chance. Their partnership was precious to him, although he didn't like to think of why. It _mattered_ to him, despite the incredible amount of setbacks and hardships this relationship entailed, and he fought to preserve it. That was why he held his tongue so many times. That was why he allowed Lennie to do the things he did without much kind of retribution. He needed someone to talk to, even if the conversations were extremely one-sided intellectually.

He couldn't say for certain that it was for entirely selfish reasons that he stayed with Lennie and didn't send him away, even if times got bad. He cared, despite every logical process that screamed its dissent, and he did want to help him, even though he was aware that Lennie was beyond help. It cost him a lot, staying with him, but without Lennie, it would have cost a lot more.

He sipped his drink rebelliously.

"I killed a guy," George murmured softly. He stared into his drink as if hoping that he would get some kind of spiritual signal from it.

"Oh," said the bartender, and turned pulled an ashtray from the depths of the sink and started scrubbing viciously at it.

"You don't sound much shocked," George said, slightly bewildered.

He shrugged. "We get all kinds."

George and the bartender were silent for a long while.

"You do it over a girl?" the bartender said at last.

"No, of course not," he responded sharply. "Well... maybe..." He was quiet again, but then proceeded to tell the bartender the whole story. When he finished, two drinks later, the bartender was quiet, and seemed completely focused on the squeaking of the ashtray. George waited.

He finally put away the tray, and flung the rag down next to it. At first when he turned around he opened his mouth to speak, but then the barman shook his head slightly, and turned around again, as if confused. His fingers twitched and he swiped the rag up again, wiping down a tankard now, extremely slowly. "Seems like you cared about this Lennie fella a lot, go through all that trouble for him."

George grunted, a noncommittal gesture.

"You couldn't do anything about what you did. That's what I think." The bartender smiled. "'Course, you didn't ask, but I'm tellin' you anyway. Ya had to do it. Otherwise they woulda done it, and it would have hurt him."

"I had ta..." George echoed softly. "But what if I didn't have ta? He could have run. We _both_ coulda ran."

"Then someone else would have got hurt. That Lennie guy, you gave him the best you could give him, consiterin' the circumstances. You couldn't do no more for him anymore."

"Couldn't do no more..." muttered George sleepily. "It wasn't fair... It was just like Candy, that's what it was. But I did it right. I couldn't... I couldn't let no stranger..."

The bartender watched as the other man started shaking, the alcohol taking a more physical effect. "That's right. You done the right thing," he said gently. He took away George's scotch glass without asking and poured it out. "You done enough for tonight," he muttered. George's head shot up, and then dipped back down disconsolately.

"'I shouldn't of let no stranger... shouldn't of let him shoot my dog.' Candy, he said that, when Carlson did in his ol' dog. I reckon everyone's gotta dog they have to let go themselves... some way or another. Don't you think?"

"I reckon so," said the bartender, not having any idea what the man before him was talking about. But now George nodded at him, a rather ridiculous smile on his face, although anything was better than what it had been before. He got to his feet unsteadily and the bartender watched him with bewildered eyes.

"Thank you sir, you done me some good," he said, his words only slurring slightly. He pulled out a roll of money and counted the bills (twice, to be sure), then frowned. "I don't-"

The bartender had expected as much. "That's alright. It's been taken care of." He waved the man away. "Go on now. Get some sleep, or you'll feel like hell in the morning."

George mumbled his thanks and half walked, half stumbled unevenly towards the door, where the night awaited him. The stars glittered mockingly, but he didn't notice, using his full concentrating power to keep on walking in the general direction of the ranch.

The bartender watched him go with a kind of fasination, then shook his head pityingly and reached for his grungy piece of cloth again.

"Poor bastard," he mumured to himself, and started on the scotch glass.

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_**Well, I got a C on the assignment, because my English teacher happens to hate me. What do you think?**_

_**Review please.**_


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